


The Ocean of Love Within

by earsXfeet6669



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Era, Museums, Slow Burn, Whales, bones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earsXfeet6669/pseuds/earsXfeet6669
Summary: Ippolit Kuragin isn't expecting to have a lot of fun on his family vacation to the beach, but everything changes when he meets an intriguing stranger in the local science center.
Relationships: Ippolit Vasilyevich Kuragin/Ishmael (Moby Dick)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ishmael is mostly based on the Dave Malloy musical version of him! I haven't finished reading Moby Dick yet, but this was SUCH a cute ship I couldn't keep myself from writing some fanfic for them :) The title of this comes from a poem. I hope you enjoy, please leave comments if you do <3

Ippolit Kuragin had never seen the sea before. He’d read about it, of course, but that didn’t mean much. He rarely retained anything he read. “This is quite a lot of water,” Ippolit said, staring out at the rolling waves in wonder.  
Vassily, standing on the beach next to Ippolit, looked like he was starting to regret taking his children on a beach trip. Hélène and Anatole had already disappeared to god knows where and were not answering his calls. He’d given up on contacting them, muttering to himself about how it would be a more relaxing vacation without them anyway. Ippolit agreed, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone with his father for an entire week. He wished he had a bath bomb to eat, if only so he didn’t have to stand in silence any more.  
“Uh,” Ippolit shifted from foot to foot, fishing for something to say. “Is there like...a museum or something we could visit?”  
Vassily sighed dramatically. “If you must. I have a business meeting to attend.” This didn’t sound right to Ippolit. He’d bet his father was going to sit somewhere on the beach, alone, and upon reflection Ippolit decided he was okay with that. Here was his golden ticket to get out of spending time with him. “There’s a science center about a block away from here.” Vassily began to walk away, pulling out his business phone and leaving Ippolit alone on the beach. “It’s right on the corner, you can’t miss it,” he called before disappearing.  
Ippolit missed it. He wandered down three separate wrong streets before he finally arrived outside the science center, almost by complete accident. Dazed, he got in line and purchased a ticket. He was almost in the doors before he remembered something very important. “Hey,” he said, making a beeline for the front desk. “I have a serious question.”  
“Oh, what can I help you with?” Asked the girl at the desk. Her name tag read Maria.  
“There aren’t any ghosts here, are there?”  
Maria blinked for a moment, looking taken aback. “Uh, no. At least not that I know of.”  
“Or ghost stories?” Ippolit pressed.  
“Um...nope. Are you sure you’re in the right place? This is a science center.”  
“I know,” Ippolit said earnestly. “I just feel very strongly about ghosts. I don’t like them at all.”  
She still looked confused. Ippolit couldn’t imagine why, it was a very straightforward question. Then she smiled. “Well, I can assure you you won’t run into any ghost stories here. Can I offer you a map?”  
“Sure,” said Ippolit. “Thanks.” He took the map and opened it. It was a lot of squiggly lines that didn’t make much sense to him.  
“Oh,” said Maria. “It’s upside down.” She turned it right side up for him, which helped a little.  
Ippolit stood there for a moment, staring at it before locating somewhere he wanted to go. He had never heard of whales before, and he figured he would check them out. He started to walk away.  
“Enjoy your visit!” Maria called.  
“Thanks,” he said absently. “You too.” Three minutes later he realized this was not an appropriate response. He didn’t have much time to fret about it, though, because he entered the whale room and his mind was blown. His jaw actually dropped at the size of the massive whale hanging from the ceiling.  
“Whales are skeletons?” he yelped aloud. It echoed throughout the mostly empty room, attracting the attention of the other people in there. “Sorry,” he whispered upon getting dirty looks from them. He wandered over to the only corner that didn’t have someone glaring at him - a sperm whale on a display table. Only one man was looking at it. He stood stiffly, seemingly entranced by the whale. His hands clenched the railing before him. They were nice hands, Ippolit noted.  
“Wow,” he muttered to himself, both at the whale’s presence and the niceness of the man’s hands. This caught the stranger’s attention. He broke out of his reverie, looking over to Ippolit, and Ippolit got a good look at his face.  
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” He asked.  
“Dolokhov?” Ippolit cried, not noticing the renewed glares from other patrons at his yelling. “Where did your beard go?”  
The stranger’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“But I- but you -”  
“Call me Ishmael,” he said, holding out his hand. Ippolit stared at it for at least twenty seconds before realizing he should shake it, which he then did with enthusiasm.  
“I’m Ippolit,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, you just look a lot like my brother’s boyfriend. And my sister’s boyfriend.”  
“Both of them?” Ishmael asked, taken aback.  
“Oh no, it’s the same person.” Ishmael said. “I can never keep track of which one of them he’s with. It changes a lot.”  
“Oh.” Ishmael looked like he didn’t know what to say.  
“Some whale, huh?” Ippolit said, gesturing to the sperm whale. For some reason he couldn’t name, he didn’t want the conversation to end just yet.  
“That’s...that’s just its jawbone,” Ishmael said.  
“Oh, that makes a lot more sense,” Ippolit said, glancing back around. “So these guys aren’t alive?”  
“No, they’re just bones.”  
Fear struck Ippolit. “Wait. Are there whale ghosts in here?”  
Ishmael looked bemused. “Whale ghosts?”  
“Yeah,” Ippolit affirmed, glancing around in fear. “I hate ghost stories.”  
Ishmael cast his eyes to the ground. “Some whaling stories make good ghost stories.”  
“WHALES MAKE GHOSTS? NECROMANCER WHALES?” Ippolit screamed. He got hushed by several other visitors again.  
“That’s not quite what I meant,” Ishmael said. “I know a lot about whales, and I’m very sure they don’t do that.”  
Ippolit’s heart rate began to decrease. “Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”  
Ishmael sighed. “I was being cryptic about my trauma so that I can later reveal it to you in an emotionally charged moment that moves our imminent romance forward,” he said, rolling his eyes like it was obvious.  
Ippolit did not understand a single word of that sentence. This wasn’t a rare occurrence for him, so he just brushed it off. “Tell me more about the whales, then,” he prodded.  
Ishmael looked at Ippolit like he was descending from the heavens. “What did you say?”  
“Tell me more about the whales? You seem to know a lot, I’m curious.”  
Ishmael grinned so widely Ippolit thought his face would split in half. “Truly?”  
“Uh, yeah.”  
“That’s wonderful. I often get told ‘please shut up about the whales, Ishmael’.”  
“That seems unnecessarily rude,” Ippolit mused.  
“Exactly!” Ishmael said. “The first thing you need to know is that a whale is a fish. The study of whales is called cetology…”  
Ippolit zoned out almost immediately. He liked Ishmael, he really did, but he had absolutely no room in his brain for all these whale facts. Fortunately, Ippolit had a lot of experience with having absolutely no clue what was going on but looking like he did. He just ended up watching Ishmael closely, drawn in by his every move. Something about the other man fascinated him. Despite not listening, he didn’t want Ishmael to stop talking. Eventually, he did, and looked right at Ippolit. “Does all that make sense?”  
“Yep,” said Ippolit confidently. “Whales. Fish. Seat apology.”  
“Cetology,” Ishmael corrected.  
“Yeah, that.” Then Ippolit had a thought, which only happened about once a month. “If whales - big fish - eat little fish, isn’t that cannibalism?”  
Ishmael paused for a second, looking stumped. “I suppose so,” he said slowly.  
Ippolit shuddered. “Cannibalism. Yikes.”  
“Hey,” said Ishmael, sounding suddenly offended and stepping back slightly. “Not all cannibals are bad.”  
“Are you a cannibal?” Ippolit wondered. He didn’t seem like it, but one never knew with strangers so weirdly knowledgeable about whales.  
“No,” Ishmael laughed, and Ippolit was glad to see him less hostile. “I did know one once, though. He was…” he trailed off, his shoulders drooping.  
“He was what?” Ippolit prompted.  
“A good man. A bosom friend.”  
Ippolit didn’t know what the word bosom meant, but it sounded like Ishmael was sad, and that wouldn’t do.  
“Ah. Well, hooray for cannibals then!”  
Ishmael’s smile still held a tinge of sadness. “Yes, hooray for cannibals.”  
“So,” Ippolit said, wanting to distract his new friend, “do you know this much about all sea creatures? ‘Cause I’ve never been to the ocean before, and I-”  
“You’ve never been to the ocean?” Ishmael asked, incredulous. “The ocean is the best therapy there is!”  
“I wouldn’t know,” Ippolit told him, shrugging. “This is my first day near any kind of sea. I saw it for the first time about -” he checked his watch. “-two hours ago.” Had it really been two hours? He supposed he had to account for the time lost going down the wrong streets, too. But still, he’d been standing by this sperm whale jawbone talking to a complete stranger for quite a long time. And to think he’d imagined he’d be alone with Vassily all day!  
“You’d never even seen the sea?” Ippolit thought Ishmael’s eyes would bug out of his head and his jaw would hit the floor.  
“Nope,” said Ippolit, unfazed. “I looked at it for about five minutes before I came here.”  
“Well, you’ve got to!” Ishmael cried. “You haven’t lived until you’ve been in the sea!”  
“In it?” Ippolit said, his eyebrows raising. “You go in it?”  
“You can!” Ishmael laughed, and Ippolit was glad to hear it. At least he wasn’t bemoaning his cannibal anymore. “You’ve got to go to the ocean. I’ll take you-” Ishmael paused, seemingly remembering they had met less than an hour ago. “That is, if you don’t mind? Or do you want to see the rest of the museum first?”  
“Nah, let’s go,” Ippolit said, giving him a grin. “I need a tour guide. I only came here anyway because I didn’t want to sit around with my father for hours.”  
“Well, if you’re sure, I’d be happy to take you,” Ishmael said.  
“Sounds like a plan.”  
Ishmael and Ippolit left the science center, chatting amiably as they walked.  
“No ghosts!” Ishmael called to Maria, still sitting at the front desk, as they passed. “Skeletons, though.”  
“Oh yeah,” she said, laughing in the way one does when something’s a little too weird to really be funny. “I hope you enjoyed them!”  
“I sure did,” Ippolit said, turning around and walking backwards so as not to face away from her, because that would be rude. “I even-” At this point, walking backwards as he was, Ippolit slammed his back into a sign in the entry hall. He teetered, windmilling his arms and falling over. Then Maria truly laughed.  
“Oh,” she covered her mouth, realizing that she should probably help the guest. “Are you okay?”  
“Yeah,” Ippolit said, blinking and shaking his head. “Maybe I should walk forwards in the future.”  
Ishmael had looked over just in time to see Ippolit fall down, which was a tad embarrassing. He didn’t seem to be too judgmental, though. He simply offered Ippolit his hand without speaking and hauled him up off the floor. He pulled a little too hard, though, and Ippolit collided into his chest. Their faces were so close…  
“Thanks,” Ippolit said breathlessly.  
“No problem,” Ishmael replied, equally shaken. It took Ippolit a second to realize he should step back, and he did, brushing off his shirt. “To the ocean!” he cried, attempting to diffuse the awkwardness between them. Ishmael smiled, and everything else fell away. He no longer felt awkward, or nervous, or anything but content. Amazing how one man’s smile could do that.  
Collecting themselves again, Ishmael and Ippolit started off for the ocean. They walked in an amiable, friendly quiet until they reached the shore. “Well, here you are,” Ishmael said, gesturing to the waves.  
“Huh.” Ippolit really didn’t know what to think. It didn’t seem very inviting. “How do you get in?”  
“You… you just walk in.” Ippolit was beginning to get the sense that Ishmael didn’t think he was the brightest.  
“Just walk in. To that? The crashing, pounding, big giant loud tumultuous waves?” Ippolit was sure to stress the word tumultuous. Ishmael had to be impressed with his intelligence if he used a word with that many syllables.  
“Well, okay,” Ishmael conceded. “You have to get through the waves for it to really be nice. You can swim, can’t you?”  
“Uhhh. Maybe. I’ve never tried it,” Ippolit confessed.  
“That’s alright, I should have expected that. We can just walk in the waves for a little bit.” Ishmael sat down and took off his shoes and socks. Ippolit did the same, making a point not to look at his new friend’s feet. He was well aware of his brother’s reputation regarding feet, and he didn’t want to do anything to encourage similar rumors about himself. Ishmael rolled up his pants to the knees, and Ippolit wasn’t quite as successful at keeping his eyes off the other man’s perfectly sculpted calves.  
Hoping desperately Ishmael didn’t notice this and think him a creep, Ippolit stood up. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He offered Ishmael his hand, mirroring what he’d done when Ippolit had fallen in the science center earlier. Ishmael gave him a tiny smile and took his hand. This action meant more to Ippolit than it should have.  
“Alright, come on,” Ishmael said once he had stood and brushed the sand off his pants. They made their way down to the beach and Ishmael walked into the surf immediately. Ippolit hung back, eyeing the angry water apprehensively. “It’s not bad,” Ishmael encouraged him. He decided to just go for and plunged a foot into the water.  
“It’s COLD!” He yelped, retracting.  
Ishmael laughed. “I’ve been in colder.” His eyes clouded over, consumed with a distant memory.  
Mainly for the purpose of distracting Ishmael from whatever plagued him, Ippolit stepped in further, hissing as he did. “Cold, cold, cold, cold,” he said with every step until he was calf-deep in the water.  
Ishmael glanced over at him and smiled. “That’s not so bad, now is it?”  
“I guess not,” Ippolit admitted. It did feel rather nice after standing in the sun for so long. “It’s kind of annoying that the water level keeps changing, though,” he noted, squinting down at the waves around his legs.  
“That’s how tides work, Ippolit,” Ishmael said. Hearing his own name out of Ishmael’s mouth was a bit of a shock, but not an unpleasant one. He realized they hadn’t actually used each other’s names since they’d been introduced. He realized Ishmael was about to launch into another convoluted scientific explanation he wouldn’t be able to follow and figured he’d better do something quick. So he did the only thing he could think of: he bent down and splashed Ishmael.  
Ishmael, whose mouth had been open (presumably to say something about tides), nearly swallowed a mouthful of seawater. “Ippolit!” he spluttered, eyes widening in betrayal. Ippolit felt a fleeting moment of fear, sure he’d offended him. But then Ishmael laughed and stooped over and splashed him back. Ippolit laughed too as the water hit him, partially from relief that he hadn’t alienated his companion and partially from the splash.  
They had fun for a while, running back and forth in the waves. Ippolit felt like a kid again. Well, not really. His childhood hadn’t been phenomenal. He felt carefree and joyous as he would imagine a childhood was supposed to. That is, until he felt something slippery on his foot. He screeched as visions of sharks and eels and whale ghosts and all sorts of things crowded his mind. “Something touched my foot!”  
Ishmael peered into the water for several moments as Ippolit stood paralyzed, certain he was going to be devoured by some horrible sea monstrosity. “There,” Ishmael said finally, pointing. Something very small and dark was being dragged along by the waves, back out to sea. “That’s a piece of seaweed.”  
“Oh.” Ippolit’s heart was still racing from his brush with death. “I thought I was going to be eaten by a kraken or something.”  
“No way,” Ishmael said. “I wouldn’t let a kraken get you.”  
Ippolit snorted. “Like you could fight off a kraken.”  
Ishmael raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised. I’ve taken on some serious sea monsters before.”  
Ippolit looked him up and down. He didn’t look particularly like he could fight a sea monster. He looked like a twink. “I’m not sure I believe that.”  
Ishmael sighed, looking down at his hands. “Sometimes I feel like it didn’t happen either,” he murmured.  
Ippolit looked around for something to distract them (again) and was startled to discover the sun was nearly on the horizon. “Woah,” he said. “It’s almost sunset.”  
“Really?” Ishmael looked up, startled out of his memories. “Would you look at that.”  
“I am looking at it.”  
“It’s...it’s an expression.”  
“Oh.” Ippolit felt like a fool again. Normally, this was a welcome and familiar feeling, but he found he actually wanted Ishmael to like him. Maybe even respect him.  
“I know a great place to watch sunsets, if you like,” Ishmael offered casually.  
“Sure! Yeah, that sounds fun,” Ippolit said. He actually didn’t care about the sunset, he just wanted to spend more time with Ishmael.  
Chattering about nothing, they made their way to Ishmael’s Special Sunset-Watching Spot, as Ippolit had taken to calling it in his mind. He was proud of the alliteration, although the W in Sunset-Watching threw it off. He was coming up with synonyms for that in his head (Sunset-Scrutinizing? Sunset-Seeing? Sunset-Stalking?) when they arrived. It was a nice little rock that stretched out into the water just enough to clear the horizon so they could see the sunset more clearly.  
“This is cool,” Ippolit commented as he sat down, leaning against one of the rocks.  
“Thanks,” Ishmael said, settling himself down rather closer to Ippolit than he had expected. He wasn’t complaining about it, though. They took in the sunset together in silence. Well, Ishmael presumably took in the sunset. Ippolit was too busy focusing on the exact distance between Ishmael’s shoulder and his own while trying very hard not to reveal that that was what he was doing.  
It was nearly dark when Ishmael finally roused himself. “Well, we should be getting back, I suppose.” He said.  
“Yeah,” Ippolit agreed, standing up as well. Without further discussion, they made their way back to their earlier spot on the beach, where Ishmael retrieved his socks and shoes. Ippolit hadn’t even realized he didn’t have them, which he was very glad for. It definitively proved that he hadn’t inherited the foot fetish gene Anatole had. They moved into the light of a streetlamp so Ishmael could put on his shoes without fumbling in the dark. Once he had done so, they stood in awkward silence for a moment, clearly both at a loss for words.  
“Well, this truly has been fun,” Ishmael said finally.  
“Totally,” Ippolit agreed. “Thanks for agreeing to be my tour guide.”  
“Any time,” Ishmael said. “Thanks for listening to me ramble about whales and tides and who knows what else.”  
“Any time,” Ippolit echoed. “And hey - speaking of, do you maybe wanna meet again tomorrow?” he asked in a rush while he still had the courage to.  
Ishmael looked almost relieved, as though he had wanted to ask the same thing but didn’t know how to. Ippolit dismissed this impression as a trick of the light. No one wanted that desperately to spend time with him. “I do,” Ishmael said eagerly. “There’s so much more to show you.”  
Ippolit grinned. “It’s a date.” Then he paused. “Wait. Not like that-”  
Ishmael laughed. “I know what you meant. Can I give you my phone number?” They exchanged numbers and planned a meeting spot for the next day, leaving Ippolit very pleased with his own daring in asking for another meeting.  
“Goodbye until tomorrow then, I guess,” said Ippolit.  
“See you tomorrow,” Ishmael said with that smile that twisted Ippolit’s insides. They began to walk away in opposite directions from the streetlight. Driven by an impulse he couldn’t name, Ippolit turned to watch him fade into the darkness of the street, only to discover that he was turned watching Ippolit. Upon being noticed, he raised a hand in farewell, then turned and started to walk away again. Ippolit waved back, despite Ishmael already being turned away. He walked the next few blocks back to their hotel in a daze, wondering what it all meant. Ishmael taking him to the sea, Ishmael frolocking with him in the waves, Ishmael watching the sunset with him, Ishmael sitting so close, Ishmael watching him walk away, Ishmael, Ishmael, Ishmael. Ippolit’s mind was wholly occupied with this strange enchanting man for the entire walk back.  
Ippolit did have enough mental space left to remember to look in on his father before he went to bed. They all had separate hotel rooms, of course, but he did have a few questions.  
“You ever find Anatole and Hélène?” He asked, seated in an armchair opposite his father, who was scrolling through the economics headlines and not even looking at him.  
“No.”  
“Any clue where they are?”  
“Knowing Anatole, probably some deplorable den of sin.”  
Deplorable den. Not bad alliteration, but Special Sunset-Seeing Spot definitely beat that. Deplorable den of debauchery would fit better. Ippolit would have suggested that had he been talking to Ishmael, but his father did not take nearly so well to correction.  
“Unfortunate. You’d think Hélène would have more class,” he mused instead.  
Vassily looked up sharply. “We have no idea if they’re even together, wherever they are.”  
“Whatever. How was your business meeting?”  
Vassily looked back down at his phone. “Illuminating.”  
“Do you have another one tomorrow?”  
“Possibly. Why?”  
Ippolit fidgeted. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want Vassily to know the truth. “Uh, there were a few landmarks I wanted to see and-”  
Not even waiting for him to finish, Vassily nodded. “You go ahead and do that. Don’t bother me unless it’s absolutely necessary.”  
That was even easier than Ippolit had thought. “No problem. Goodnight.”  
Vassily murmured something that might have sounded vaguely like “goodnight”. Ippolit took this as a dismissal and made his way to his own room.  
Before he went to bed, he checked his phone one more time for a text from Ishmael. Nothing. Ippolit toyed with the idea of sending him something, but in the end he decided that was too forward. He could wait a day. It wasn’t like he had anything interesting to say anyway. He turned the light off and got into bed, his head still full of Ishmael. He fell asleep smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys sorry this took so long!! I was having some trouble finishing it up but it's done now :) Enjoy <3

Ippolit awoke the next morning and laid in bed for a calm moment before remembering all the events of yesterday. As soon as he did, he sat bolt upright, memories of Ishmael flooding him. The man’s eyes, his hands, the way he spoke faster when he talked about something he liked, the little indulgent smiles he would give Ishmael when he said something stupid before explaining - it all washed over Ippolit at the same time. He realized he was smiling to himself. 

“Get it together, Ippolit,” he said aloud, laughing at the end. Ishmael had really made a fool of him, and he welcomed it. He hadn’t felt this light and happy since - well, forever. He was halfway across the room before he remembered he had given Ishmael his phone number and was waiting for a text. He bolted back across the room and snatched the phone up as quickly as he could. And there it was: 

“Hi, it’s Ishmael. Does the beach still work for a meeting spot? See you soon :)”

Ippolit’s heart rate quickened. It was astonishing how a simple text from someone he’d met the day before could do that. The smiley face...it seemed like he really was as happy as Ippolit was to meet again, or at least looking forward to it. 

“yep it does i’ll try not to get lost haha :)” Ishmael sent back. He worried over the smiley face for several moments. He didn’t want to seem like he was stealing Ishmael’s thing, but then again he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would worry too much about that. If he didn’t send the smiley face, it might come off as rude or cold, and that was the last thing Ippolit wanted. He ruled in favor of it eventually. Matching the tone seemed like a smart thing to do. 

With a jolt, he realized he hadn’t brought any respectable clothing to wear. He had expected to spend the entire week lazing around on the bench, not finding someone he actually wanted to impress and having to dress the part to spend a whole day with him. Well at least he assumed he was spending the whole day with him. They’d never actually specified what the plan was. 

Great. Just great. Yet another tiny detail for Ippolit to worry incessantly about. Why did he care so much? He’d always been pretty apathetic about these things before. Ishmael made him care, he realized. Strange. 

In the end, he just decided to throw on any t-shirt and shorts he had like yesterday. Maybe keeping things similar to the day before would be okay, even if it was a little sloppy looking. He did spend almost ten minutes in front of the mirror before he left trying to decide which hairstyle looked least stupid, though. That happened in between all the times he obsessively checked his phone to see if Ishmael had replied to him. He didn’t until Ippolit had gathered nearly all his things to go. 

“Okay, great! Call me if you do get lost, I can try to walk you through finding me.” Ippolit was suddenly terribly intimidated by Ishmael's good grammar. Ippolit himself wasn’t the greatest at making things make sense in general, and especially not in writing. He hoped he didn’t look terribly stupid. He refused to obsess over the contents of his own text, though. It was already sent, what was the point in agonizing over it? Ishmael’s text contained great possibilities. He did want to call him, but he also didn’t want to get lost. He decided to just reply with “ok thanks!” And hope he’d make it there alright. 

He gathered the rest of his stuff and was about to leave when a knock came at the door, greatly dampening his mood. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else, especially not Vassily, and it was bound to be Vassily. He sighed. “Yes?” He called. “Come in, I guess.” 

The door swung open with a click, and it was indeed his father standing there. “Are you going to be gone again today?” 

“Good morning to you too,” Ippolit said politely. “I slept fine, thanks for asking. How about you?” 

Vassily barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Ippolit enjoyed those moments. He could almost feel the repressed rage emanating from him. “Answer my question.” 

“Maybe you didn’t sleep well,” Ippolit continued. “You seem grumpy.” 

“This is how I am every day,” Vassily snapped. 

“Exactly.” It was almost like he was self-aware. 

“Ippolit. Answer. The. Question.” 

Ippolit grinned. He would have absolutely kept toying with his father if he wasn’t afraid of being late to meet Ishmael. Most of the time he didn’t like being around Vassily, but messing with him was fun, in a terrifying thrill sort of way. Today he felt very optimistic about it. Nothing could go wrong today. “I told you,” he said, “I wanna see some stuff today, so yeah. I’ll be gone all day.” 

“Ah. I won’t keep you then.” Vassily closed the door again without so much as a goodbye. "Good riddance," Ippolit muttered to himself. "Stay out of the way of my date." No matter what he had said to Ishmael the night before, he was definitely considering this a date. This time, if Anatole made fun of him for not getting any hot dates, he could disagree. But on second thought, he decided he didn’t want Anatole to know about Ishmael. Knowing his brother, he would corrupt it somehow. Or say something awful. Or do something to ruin Ippolit’s fun. 

Ippolit finally set out from the hotel, fully prepared to get lost and be late and have to apologize a thousand times to Ishmael. Luckily (and surprisingly) he didn’t do any of those things. He made it there quite on time - and without having to double back or consult a map. This was a serious accomplishment for him. 

He spotted Ishmael standing on the beach, close to where they had been the day before. “Ishmael! Hi!” he called, waving. Ishmael turned, confusion on his face turning into a smile that made Ippolit’s heart skip a beat. That smile was for him. It was a novel feeling to be truly appreciated. Or even wanted. 

“Oh, hey Ippolit,” Ishmael said, waving back as he approached. “You made it without getting lost, huh?” Ippolit had a moment of panic where he was horribly convinced Ishmael thought him completely incompetent until he remembered he had been the one to suggest that about himself over text. 

“Yeah,” he said, laughing almost nervously. “A first for me. You know I got lost for almost an hour trying to find the science center yesterday? That was kind of embarrassing. Actually, I don’t know why I’m telling you that. You’re all smart and cool and - and stuff. Wow. This is embarrassing. Sorry,” he finished. Great job, Ippolit, he berated himself silently. You managed to ramble about your own failures and look like a fool within a minute of seeing him again. What a flirter you are. 

Amazingly, Ishmael was smiling. “No, that’s understandable,” he said. “These streets are weird if you aren’t used to them, as I assume you aren’t.” Ippolit was terribly grateful for that reassurance. Suddenly, Ishmael’s brows furrowed. “Hey,” he said. “Where are you from? I never asked. But you said you were vacationing, so I probably should have.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Ippolit. “Don’t worry about it. No one ever wants to know stuff about me. I’m boring. And weird,” he added. Ishmael was looking at him strangely, almost with pity. Ippolit couldn’t figure out what for the life of him the pity was for. Those were all true. It was just the way things were. 

“Well, I want to know. You’re not boring and weird,” Ishmael said, looking at him with that slightly sad expression again. 

“You do? I’m visiting from Russia, if you really must know,” Ippolit said. He was pleasantly surprised by how nice it was to have someone actually care. He felt warm. 

Ishmael’s eyes widened. “Russia?” 

“Yeah,” Ippolit said, not sure why this was a huge deal. His name was Ippolit Kuragin. Did that sound American to Ishmael? 

“Like - like all the way in Europe Russia?” 

“No, it’s not Europe Russia. Just plain Russia.” 

“No, I-” Ishmael laughed. It was a very nice laugh. Ippolit wanted to hear it again. “I mean like, the Russia that’s a part of Europe.” 

“Oh. That. Yeah. Why didn’t you just say that?” 

Ishmael smiled at him, shaking his head. “You are one strange person, Ippolit.” 

“I know,” he said almost ruefully. He didn’t dislike himself, but sometimes he wished he could be a little more impressive. 

“Hey,” Ishmael said, reaching out and putting his hand on Ippolit’s shoulder. Ippolit froze, blinking. The contact was surprisingly welcome. “I meant it as a good thing,” he said, looking directly into Ippolit’s eyes and smiling. If he hadn’t already, Ippolit fell in love in that moment. That one simple statement from a man he’d met yesterday held more care than anything else Ippolit had ever been told in his life.

“I- oh. Thank you,” Ippolit said softly, looking anywhere but at Ishmael. He didn’t know how to take things like that. It was a great thing to hear, for sure, but that didn’t mean he was used to hearing things like that and knew how to respond to them. 

“Of course,” Ishmael said, patting Ippolit’s shoulder and withdrawing his arm. Ippolit missed it. “So. Where should we go? Is there anything you really wanted to see?” 

“Nah,” Ippolit said with relief that they had moved on. The slight awkwardness in the air had disappeared. “I mean, you know this town really well, right? I trust the experts.” 

Ishmael looked gratified. “An expert, eh? I guess I’ll have to be a very good tour guide for you.” 

“I have total faith in you,” Ippolit said earnestly. “You know a lot of stuff, I think.” 

“I think so too,” Ishmael said. “Sometimes too much. I apologize in advance if I talk way too much about the history of whaling here. It’s really fascinating.” 

“Very well, then,” said Ippolit. “I trust you.” 

Ishmael’s face softened. “Really? Good, because I have a ton of whale facts up my sleeve. You thought you heard me ramble yesterday? You’re in for a real treat. Or possibly torture session. If I’m really boring or I tell you something you already know, tell me to shut up. People do that all the time, I’m used to it.” Ippolit could relate to that. It wasn’t the world’s greatest feeling, and he certainly wasn’t going to do that to Ishmael. Besides, he would have had to have taken in a single thing Ishmael said about whales the day before to know that he had already told it to him. Ippolit’s brain was just too small for that. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’m sure you won’t be boring, though.” 

Ishmael shook his head ruefully. “I’m not sure about that at all.” 

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Ippolit said staunchly. “Where are we going first?” 

Ishmael’s eyes lit up. “I’m so glad you asked. Come on, I’ll show you.” He set off down the beach in the opposite direction than they had gone the day before. They walked in companionable silence for a while, occasionally pointing out different interesting sights to each other. Ippolit found a curly shell. Ishmael told him it was a whelk. He forgot this about thirty seconds later. He tucked the shell into his pocket, though. 

“Alright,” said Ishmael finally. They’d reached what seemed to be the edge of the beach. It sloped upward, so Ippolit couldn’t actually see what was on the other side of the mound of sand in front of him. To Ippolit’s shock, Ishmael started climbing up the sand. “Come on,” he said, turning and beckoning to Ippolit once he’d reached the top. “It’s just on the other side of this.” Absolutely baffled, Ippolit copied his movements until he had hauled himself to the top of the great mound of sand. Slightly out of breath, he stood next to Ishmael and looked out where he was pointing.   
The sand sloped down again and rejoined a beach, but that’s wasn’t the interesting part. There was a whole bunch of wood sticking out of the water. It formed platforms that it looked like you could walk on. In fact, there were people walking on it, and boats pulled up in it. It didn’t look particularly safe to Ippolit. All in all, it was the strangest half-underwater forest Ippolit had ever seen. In fact, it was the only one. 

“These are the docks,” Ishmael said. “It’s where everyone keeps all the cool boats in town. I like to walk around and just look at them. Sometimes I imagine I’m going out on some amazing voyage with them,” he added, a hint of wistfulness entering his tone as he looked down at them. 

“Oh,” Ippolit said, feeling foolish again. “So it’s not a half-underwater forest?” 

Ishmael’s brow furrowed. “Uh, no. Were you expecting one?” 

“No,” Ippolit shrugged. “But what else am I supposed to think when a whole bunch of wood just sticks up out of the water like that? That’s awfully convenient for the boats,” he added suspiciously. “It’s almost like it was built for them to be there.” 

“It was,” Ishmael said blankly. “Did you think the wood just grew like that?” 

As a matter of fact, he had, but he didn’t feel particularly like admitting to that now. So he just settled for a shrug. 

To his surprise, Ishmael broke into a grin. “Oh, you are a delightful person,” he said. Ippolit felt warm again. Did he really mean that? “I am going to enjoy showing you around so much.” Tentatively, Ippolit smiled back. “Come on,” he continued. “We have to go down and walk around the boats. They’re so much more impressive up close.” 

This idea stirred a bit of apprehension in Ippolit. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to go tromping up and down the rickety-looking dock. He watched it carefully as they approached. It didn’t seem to be shaking under the weight of the people on it. It seemed pretty well taken care of, but looks were deceptive. He would know; Anatole and Hélène were related to him. 

Ippolit hung back when they finally reached the dock. Ishmael walked on it no problem, and it didn’t creak or anything under his weight. But perhaps two of them together would be too much for it. Ishmael paused after a few steps and turned around, seemingly noticing his hesitation. He tilted his head. “What are you waiting for?” 

“Uh,” Ippolit said, “Nothing. I just - I thought - you know, you should go first. Since you know where you’re going and all. And, well, maybe, I was just wondering - you know - if - uh, it was altogether safe.” 

A look of comprehension dawned on Ishmael’s face. “Oh,” he said. “I promise there aren’t any ghosts hanging around here.” It hadn’t been what he meant, but Ishmael’s heart warmed to know that he had remembered that. And now that Ishmael mentioned it, he did feel emboldened to know that. “It’s perfectly safe, I promise,” Ishmael said. “It only gets dangerous once you get out to sea,” he added, with a tiny and absolutely inauthentic laugh. Ippolit was beginning to suspect he had some tragic sea story he was hiding. “The docks don’t hold any danger,” Ishmael repeated. “Come on.” And he held out his hand. 

Ippolit stared at it for a moment. Was he - did he - did he want Ippolit to take his hand? Not that he minded that. He would gladly do so. It just seemed a little...too forward for Ippolit to do, given that he had decided about twenty minutes ago that he was in love with Ishmael. Stop worrying about it, he berated himself. It’d be rude not to. So he closed the gap between them and took Ishmael’s hand. 

The first thing he noted about it was that it was rather rough and callous. Ishmael seemed like a learned man, the type more apt to stay at home and read long thick books about whales Ippolit could never even begin to comprehend rather than go out and do any sort of physical activity that would leave him with callouses. He had a firm grip, too. His hands were almost the same size as Ippolit’s, as though they were made to hold each other. His hand was warm in Ippolit’s own. 

“See?” Ishmael said with a soft smile. “It’s safe.” 

“Yeah,” Ippolit said, swallowing his fear and looking down and around at the water, still holding Ishmael’s hand. He didn’t make any move to pull away, so Ippolit didn’t see why he should. It was pleasant. 

They stayed like that the entire adventure up and down the dock. Ishmael paused next to every other boat and went on some great tirade about the proper way to man the ship and swab the deck and plunder treasure or something (Ippolit had read several pirate books before and considered himself knowledgeable in the art of plundering treasure. Ishmael didn’t actually talk about that, but Ippolit privately thought he should). As before, all of it went completely over Ippolit’s head, but he was happy to just sit back and watch Ishmael get into whatever it was he was talking about. He was fascinating when he got invested in a topic, even if Ippolit had next to no clue what he was talking about. 

He seemed to know a great deal about whaling, too, which explained his expertise in the art of identifying whale bones from the science center earlier. He had very strong opinions about the classification of whales as fish, a topic that came up again in their conversation. Actually, it was less of a conversation and more of a lecture from Ishmael, but Ippolit didn’t mind. The idea of a whale as a type of fish made sense to Ippolit. As far as he was concerned, fish lived in water and were vaguely oval shaped. The whale certainly fit that classification. When he said as much to Ishmael, he grinned brilliantly at Ishmael. It was a very attractive grin. “Finally,” he said, “someone who agrees with me! Most scientists think they should be classified as mammals-” he pronounced the word with a distinct distaste, “- which is absolutely ridiculous. They don’t have any hair or any legs or live on land. Who ever heard of a legless hairless ocean-dwelling mammal?”   
“That is ridiculous,” Ippolit agreed firmly. He wasn’t entirely sure what made a mammal, but that didn’t sound right. He trusted Ishmael to be the animal expert. The expert on everything, really, except maybe pirates. And ghosts. But he had sounded so sure when he’d told Ippolit there were no ghosts earlier. Maybe he was a ghost expert. Ippolit would ask, but he was pretty sure any answer given would qualify as a ghost story, which was a resounding no from him. 

By the time they were done at the docks, Ishmael was pretty sure he had heard every single boat or whale fact there was to hear under the sun. There could not be anyone on earth more knowledgeable than Ishmael about these things. It was amazing how long he could talk for and still say important and interesting things. Ippolit could talk a lot, too, but he was pretty sure he held his audience’s attention about five percent of the time, maybe less. 

Ishmael remarked that it was about lunchtime, which lead to him finally letting go of Ippolit’s hand to pull out his phone and look for nearby restaurants. Ippolit was confused about how he didn’t know the geography of his own town until he realized that since Ishmael actually lived there, he probably just went to the grocery store and made his own food. Ippolit zoned out for a few minutes thinking about the grocery store, and more specifically how they misted the vegetables there. It was always a weirdly soothing thing to watch. 

“Hey, Ishmael?” he said. 

“Yeah?” Ishmael looked up from his phone. 

“How much water a year do you think they use to spray the vegetables in the grocery store?” 

“To what?” He looked baffled. 

“You know, when they mist them or whatever. I feel like over a whole year they would use a lot of water. Maybe that’s why there are deserts,” he added thoughtfully. What an interesting theory he’d just come up with! Ippolit didn’t usually consider himself a man of science, but on this occasion he did. 

Ishmael briefly looked at him like he’d grown two heads, then he smiled. “Please never stop saying weird random things to me,” he said happily. 

Ippolit smiled back. “I can promise that I never will.” 

“Good,” Ishmael said, chuckling and looking back down at his phone. “I know this place that serves great chowder.” 

“What’s chowder?” 

“That’s what I thought the first time I heard of it,” he said, nodding wisely. “And then I tried it. It’s so good.” 

“Huh.” Ippolit shrugged. “I’d be down to try that.” 

“Awesome,” Ishmael said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Let’s go!”

And go they did. They strolled amiably down the streets, Ishmael pointing out various landmarks and shops so that Ippolit would know where he was. Ippolit did not know where he was. He could always try to remember these things, but he knew it would be fruitless. He didn’t have the brain for that. 

They finally arrived at the restaurant and took their seats. Ishmael ordered for them, which Ippolit was grateful for. He wasn’t the world’s greatest at social interaction. They made small talk until the chowder came. Once it did, Ippolit was surprised at how good it tasted. 

“This is great!” he exclaimed. 

Ishmael grinned at him over his full spoon. “I knew you would like it.” 

Silence fell as they ate. It was a comfortable silence, one borne of mutual enjoyment of food. They simply couldn’t speak as they were so voraciously consuming the delicious cuisine.   
When they were done there, Ishmael just kept suggesting more places for Ippolit to see, and he kept agreeing. They went to get ice cream, which Ippolit considered himself to be an expert on, since he was from Russia, which had a lot of ice and a fair amount of cream. Ishmael laughed at this, which confused him. He hadn’t been joking. They went to an arcade; Ishmael won almost all the games. This was only because Ippolit was slightly worse than he was. They were both terrible, and laughed themselves out of the place. They went to several stores and just poked around for whatever they could find, making fun of the terrible tacky shirts and ugly magnets. Ippolit had never enjoyed himself so much in his life. 

They ended the day sitting by the sea again. The tide was going out, so they situated themselves as close to the waves as they could. The more powerful waves washed over their feet sometimes. Ishmael had his legs stretched out and his arms behind him supporting him. Ippolit just watched him, taking in his profile against the sky. It was a very nice profile. He wanted to hold his hand again. 

After a moment, Ishmael noticed. He turned his head slightly, a bemused grin playing across his face. “What?” he asked, slightly puzzled. 

Ippolit flushed. “Nothing,” he muttered, looking away. He dragged a finger through the sand, making random lines. He could feel Ishmael watching him. Their casual companionship felt charged now. Did he know Ippolit loved him? 

Ishmael cleared his throat slightly awkwardly and sat up. “Uh, you know, I-” he stopped. Ippolit looked over at him to see his brow furrowed. He looked like he was searching for words. “I’ve uh, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, Ippolit.” 

There it was again. Ishmael saying his name made it sound nicer than it ever had to him. “Oh - thank you,” Ippolit said. “Most people don’t say that,” he added offhandedly. “Or,” he amended, tilting his head, “They say that and then they definitely do not mean it.” 

Ishmael looked taken aback. “Oh,” he said. “Well in that case, they don’t know what they’re missing,” he finished firmly, nodded. 

Ippolit looked down and smiled. Why on earth was he so nice to him? Maybe Ishmael really did like him. “Thanks,” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” Ishmael said nervously. “You’re welcome.” What did he possibly have to be nervous about? He wasn’t the one who’d spent the whole day worrying the other man would realize he was in love with him after only knowing him for two days. Not that that had ever stopped Anatole, Ippolit realized. Maybe these things were genetic after all. 

Ishmael sighed and leaned his head against Ippolit’s shoulder in what was clearly a calculated move meant to look casual. Even Ippolit could tell that, and he wasn’t generally the most perceptive person in the room. Not that they were in a room. Unless - could one call the beach a room? Hmm. It didn’t have any walls, but maybe the borders of the ocean and the street counted. Ippolit, he mentally scolded himself, you’re letting your mind run away with you. He tended to do that when he was nervous. 

It was a comfort to him to realize that they were both nervous. Although for what he couldn’t imagine. It was ridiculous to think that they could possibly feel the same way about each other. Although...Ippolit had always been a markedly ridiculous person, and ridiculous things happened to him. It wasn’t impossible. 

He didn’t say anything, but shifted a little to make Ishmael’s head rest better on him. They sat there in silence for a while, the only noise the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore. It wasn’t an awkward silence, thank goodness. Or maybe it was for Ishmael, and Ippolit just kept getting distracted by random things too quickly to really feel the awkwardness. Who knew? 

Ippolit suddenly felt Ishmael’s hand slip into his own. He took it reflexively, threading their fingers together. Now it was a little awkward, but also nicer. Ippolit smiled. They sat there together for a while longer, watching the sun set. It was almost dusk when Ishmael finally lifted his head off Ippolit’s shoulder. “We should probably go,” he said reluctantly. 

Ippolit started. He’d been drifting off a little, not into sleep but into a rather dramatic mental narrative of his relationship with Ishmael, which at the moment was culminating in a rather dramatic rescue from an evil ghost. “Oh,” he said, shaken back into the real world. “Yeah, I suppose so.” 

“Right,” Ishmael said, turning his head toward Ippolit. Neither of them made a move to leave as Ishmael had suggested. Ishmael’s face was rather close to Ippolit’s, actually. Too close. But oddly enough, Ippolit didn’t mind. They stayed there, frozen, transfixed by the closeness of each other. 

Unbidden, the “are we about to kiss right now?” Tik Tok audio started playing on a loop in Ippolit’s brain. He almost laughed, but caught himself once he realized laughing in the face of the man who might be about to kiss him probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. 

Ishmael’s hand rested on his cheek. He started to pull Ippolit in, clearly intending to kiss him. Ippolit’s heart sped up. He leaned in and closed his eyes and - 

His phone rang. They sprang apart, both awkwardly trying to pretend that what had just almost happened hadn’t just almost happened. Ippolit let out a nervous laugh. “I - uh, I should take this,” he said, without even looking at the caller ID. Wanting nothing more than to distract himself from the awkwardness, he answered the phone without even looking. “Hello?” 

“Hey, Ippolit. It’s me.” It was Anatole. Fury flooded Ippolit. He’d been interrupted for Anatole? Unacceptable. 

“What do you want?” he snapped, not bothering to hide his annoyance. 

“Wow, what a way to greet your hot, fabulous, better-than-you-in-every-conceivable-way brother. Are you jealous or something?” Ippolit distinctly heard Hélène’s voice in the background telling him to ‘shut up and get on with it’. For once, he appreciated his sister. “Alright, fine,” Anatole sighed. “You’d better come back quickly. Dad’s dead.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day chapter!! Enjoy meeting the new characters :D They might be a little bit out of character, but that's just cause they're drunk XD

Ippolit and Ishmael returned as quickly to the hotel as they could in near-silence. As soon as Ippolit had told Ishmael what had happened, he’d pulled Ippolit in close and sworn not to leave his side until he was dismissed. 

That action created an oddly nice feeling to have upon discovering one’s father was dead. 

They had gotten a taxi, and Ippolit leaned his head against the cold window, staring out into the semidarkness as he considered things. His head bounced against it, but he didn’t mind. Ishmael seemed to be silent because he didn’t know what to say. Ippolit was silent because he was too busy feeling. Navigating the emotions he had around this news was a difficult and complicated process. Vassily Kuragin was not the sort of person whose death would inspire a great deal of grief. Ippolit wasn’t even really sad. Vassily had been less of a father to him and more of a distant but intimidating business partner. 

The mixed-up emotions weren’t from the news of his death. It was from the fact that he wasn’t sad about it. He wasn’t sure whether he needed to feel guilty about that or not. He also didn’t know how Ishmael would take it. He had no idea what Vassily was like, so maybe he would just take it as Ippolit being callous. 

Beyond all of that, the idea of Vassily being gone forever just felt wrong. He hadn’t ever been close to his son, but that didn’t mean Ippolit didn’t constantly feel his expectations looming. It was like he’d been standing under the beach umbrella of Vassily’s opinions his whole life and now it was swept away and he could stand in the sunlight. Freeing, but new, and a little scary. The truth was, Ippolit wasn’t sure where this left him in life. Not sad, but maybe lost. 

It was also just strange to think that the man he’d spoken to this morning - who had been rude and brusque and dismissive but undoubtedly alive - would never eye the stock market numbers while pretending to listen to Ippolit ever again because he was dead. Possibly this was a good thing, but it was still a disruption in the rhythm of Ippolit’s life. 

With a jolt, he realized dead people made ghosts. Fear started to trickle through him. Alive Vassily was barely tolerable, but if he ever met Ghost Vassily he was going to have to learn how to perform an exorcism. Did exorcisms even get rid of ghosts? He didn’t know. He should know that, but it would require reading up on ghosts, which was a definite no. 

“Hey, Ishmael?” He murmured. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do exorcisms get rid of ghosts?” 

To his surprise, Ishmael took his hand tenderly. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he soothed. A pause. “Also, I don’t know.” 

They stayed holding hands until they reached the hotel and Ippolit, suddenly oddly self-conscious about it, let go. They stayed silent until they got back to Ippolit’s room. He refused to look at Vassily’s door. 

Anatole, Hélène, and Dolokhov were seated around a table, a mostly-empty bottle of vodka on the table between them. There were no glasses. They looked up when Ippolit and Ishmael opened the door, staring for a moment. 

“That’s me,” Dolokhov said slowly, his brow furrowing. He was pointing at Ishmael. Ippolit twisted to see Ishmael’s mouth open too, his own hand outstretched. 

“This is the spiderman pointing meme,” Ippolit realized. 

“Can we not meme the fact that I’ve just discovered I have a clone who is hanging out with Ippolit for some reason?” Dolokhov asked incredulously. 

“A clone?” Anatole said. “Hot. Didn’t you just say you’d f-“ 

“We are not reliving the sex with your clone conversation,” Hélène said firmly. 

“Your clone isn’t as hot as you anyway, Fedya,” Anatole observed. “Too bad. Hélène and I could have shared a lot more easily if he was.” 

Ishmael was beginning to look scared, and Ippolit couldn’t blame him. His siblings were downright horrifying. So was Dolokhov. “Ignore them,” he muttered to Ishmael. “They’re godless heathens.” 

Anatole laughed. “Thanks for the compliment, man.” 

Ippolit stood stiffly. He hated the way he felt around them. Lumbering, slow, out of place - like a beached walrus. He was able to remember the marine science facts after all, which made him feel a bit better. Surely Hélène and Anatole couldn’t have told anyone what some whales use to filter their food in place of teeth (the answer was baleen). “Have you all forgotten why we’re here?” He said pointedly. 

“Clone meetup, apparently.” Dolokhov said. 

“How come your clone is a twink but you aren’t?” Anatole mused. “It must be the beard. Does wonders.” 

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

Hélène sighed. “Ippolit’s right,” she cut in. He felt the beginnings of what might have qualified as affection towards her stirring until she eyed him disdainfully and added, “for once.”   
“I’ve found Ippolit to be a remarkably good interlocutor,” Ishmael interjected staunchly. 

“Your clone swallowed a dictionary,” Hélène told Dolokhov mildly. She fixed Ippolit with a piercing stare. “Who is this, anyway?” 

“This is my-” he only hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was too late. He saw Anatole’s eyebrows go up and knew he would be grilled about it later. “-new friend Ishmael. I met him in the science center on the first day and he’s been showing me around town and telling me a lot of whale facts. Did you know that the blue whale is the largest fish?” 

“Whales aren’t fish,” Dolokhov snorted. 

“Yes they are,” Ishmael said hotly.

Dolokhov looked at him, almost expressionless but for the suggestion of a sneer. “No,” he said, with the air of someone telling a child fairies aren’t real, “they’re not.” 

“They-“ Ippolit grabbed Ishmael’s arm. He knew he could go on about this topic forever, and while he didn’t want to stop him from education, he was fairly sure that was the least important argument to be had right now. 

“Ishmael, these are my siblings,” he said, speaking over him for the first time since they’d met. “Hélène and Anatole.” He gestured to each of them. “And this is their boyfriend - I think anyway, I have no idea what’s going on with them -“

“You and me both,” Dolokhov muttered. Anatole swatted him, but he didn’t really look offended. Hélène sighed and rubbed her forehead. 

“- Dolokhov,” Ippolit finished. Comprehension slowly dawned on Ishmael’s face. 

“This is the guy you mistook me for in the science center that first day.” 

Ippolit nodded, and Ishmael turned to appraise Dolokhov. “Why do we look so alike?” 

He shrugged. “Why would I know? Do you think I have a DNA test on me?” 

“Can we figure this out after we get through the whole Dad-is-dead-and-we-don’t-know-how-or-why conversation?” Ippolit implored. 

Hélène gave him a strange look. “But we do know.” 

“Do we?” Ippolit demanded, shocked. It was just like them to know something like this and not tell him. 

“I killed him,” Hélène said, casually and matter-of-factly as though she’d just told him what the weather was. Which was a bad simile, Ippolit realized, because he was the one who had just come in from outside. As such, he should be the one telling her what the weather was like. 

He suspected his brain was clinging onto the specifics of his simile because it didn’t want to process the fact that his sister had just confessed to killing his father. Stupid brain. ‘As though she were telling him the time of day’ would have worked better. 

Ishmael made a small noise, and she gave him a withering look. “Oh, please. If you had know him, you would have killed him too. Also, please don’t tell anyone. Otherwise I might be forced to kill you too.” 

Ishmael’s eyes widened and Ippolit, who felt it was warranted, took his hand defensively. “No one is killing my friend,” he said. 

“Sorry,” Dolokhov shrugged, suddenly twirling a gun between his fingers like an action movie protagonist. “No doubles.” Ippolit made to move in front of Ishmael, and Dolokhov laughed cruelly. “Good God, I’m not serious. Calm down.” 

“Why do you have a gun?” Ishmael cried. “Aren’t you on vacation?” 

Dolokhov tapped the side of his head with the barrel of the gun. A very small, vindictive part of Ippolit briefly hoped it would go off. “You never know who’s wife you’re gonna sleep with and get in a duel over,” he nodded sagely. 

Hélène groaned. “Would you shut up about that? It was one time!” 

“I was prepared,” he shrugged. “Aren’t you glad I lived to have an affair with you another day?” 

Her look was icy. “I’m not sure.” 

He grinned and attempted to kiss her. She dodged it, so he shrugged and kissed Anatole instead, who then said, “ _I’m_ glad.” 

“Thank you for your support,” Dolokhov said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. He glanced back at Hélène. “You’re missing out.” 

“I have already committed murder once today,” she said flatly. “Don’t make me do it again.” 

“Hot,” Dolokhov said. 

Ippolit was intensely embarrassed by their behavior. He sincerely hoped Ishmael didn’t assume he chose to hang out with them voluntarily. Genetics were a horrible thing. “I’m sorry!” He cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Does anyone want to explain why Hélène killed our dad!” 

She looked at him blankly. “He sucked?” 

“Alright, fair,” Ippolit admitted. His head was spinning. “But why now? And how? Did Anatole and Dolokhov help? Also, why are you telling me? And why are you telling Ishmael? Are you trying to go to jail?” 

Hélène held up a hand. “One at a time. I did it now because he was being rude to me this morning and I snapped, because that’s what feral girlbosses do.” 

Dolokhov and Anatole groaned. “If you call yourself a girlboss _one more time_ ,” Dolokhov started, brandishing his gun threateningly. “I am going to load this thing and make sure you never go to jail for killing your father because you’ll be in a grave next to him.” 

Hélène looked appalled. “You would bury me next to him?” 

“That’s too far, dude,” Anatole said, stricken. 

“Do _you_ want to keep hearing her call herself a girlboss?” Dolokhov demanded. 

“No,” Anatole admitted. “But you could at least have the decency to cremate her and scatter the ashes somewhere nice. Like that club we were at last night.” 

Hélène scowled. “Do not scatter my ashes in a nightclub.” 

“Where shall I put you then?” Dolokhov asked gallantly. 

They never found out just where Dolokhov should put Hélène (which Ippolit was grateful for, because with wording that like he could tell it was going to become a dirty joke very quickly) because Ishmael spoke up. He sounded even angrier than Hélène when he spat, “Look, you’ve just dropped some horrible news on your brother. The least you can do is answer his questions without devolving into banter for two minutes.” Ippolit was impressed and appreciative. He could never seem to stand up to his siblings, but he was glad someone could. 

“The only thing the author can write is banter, though,” Dolokhov pointed out. 

“The what?” 

“Never mind. Hélène, answer the questions.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Please answer the questions, Your Highness. For my clone.” 

“Anything for your clone,” she leered. “But seriously, Ippolit, you should know. I drowned him on the yacht he rented and made it look like a snorkeling accident. Anatole and Dolokhov didn’t help, because they would have botched it if I let them.” 

“No I wouldn’t,” Anatole said, sounding wounded. 

“Yes you would,” Hélène, Dolokhov, and Ippolit said at the same time. Anatole ducked his head and muttered something about the youngest always being overlooked. Ippolit desperately wished he could overlook Anatole. 

“I am telling you and Ishmael,” Hélène continued, “because I wanted to ruin your vacation. And also so you worried about ghosts, since the spirits of those who were murdered are more likely to come back for vengeance.” 

Normally, this would have terrified Ippolit. He felt Ishmael’s grip on his hand (which he had forgotten he was holding, but it was a welcome reminder) tighten. Right now, though, he was just furious with all of them. 

“Good,” he said clearly. “I hope he does come back to haunt you and keeps signing ghostly prenups on your behalf to terrible men.”

Hélène laughed. “I didn’t know you had a spine, Ippolit.” 

“You should pay better attention,” he retorted. This sort of anger was unfamiliar, and all he could tell about it was that Ishmael’s presence was invoking it. He wanted things to be nice for his friend (boyfriend? Maybe?), and his family was ruining it. 

“Oh,” Hélène added in the sort of casual tone that was conspicuous because it was trying too hard to sound casual, “and because just in case we’re questioned about when we last saw our father, I need you to give them answers that won’t incriminate me.” 

Ishmael’s jaw dropped. “You want him to commit perjury for you?” 

Anatole rolled his eyes. “Nobody knows what perjury is.” He picked up the bottle of vodka off the table. 

“Everyone who passed fifth grade does,” Dolokhov said, snatching the bottle from Anatole’s hand and taking a swig. “So everyone but you.” 

To be fair, Ippolit didn’t know what it was either, but he would rather be drowned by Hélène than let them realize that. So he just stayed silent and tried to look vaguely smug and superior. He didn’t realize until much later that was unconsciously copying the expression Ishmael wore when he talked about whales being fish. 

“But why me?” Ishmael interjected. “You could have easily made some excuse about family business and gotten me out of here.” 

“Hmm,” Hélène mused. “I could have.” 

“So why didn’t you?” 

“Because,” she said, shaking her finger at him. “I am drunk.” 

That was a fair point. Ippolit had been surprised at her behavior all day. She normally wasn’t so flippant, nor did she tolerate this sort of clownery from Anatole and Dolokhov in polite company. Although perhaps Ishmael didn’t count as polite company because immediately upon his introduction, he had been told he was a less hot version of Ippolit’s sibling’s joint boyfriend. That didn’t seem terribly polite to Ippolit, although Ishmael had handled it well. 

“Look,” Hélène said, “All I need you to do is tell the police that we were all together on the beach when we heard the news. And that’s only if they ask, which they shouldn’t, because I did such a good job of making it look like an accident.” 

“Congratulations,” Ippolit said, unsure if he was being sarcastic or not. 

She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

“How did you hear the news if you were all together?” Ishmael asked.

Ippolit thought it was a good question, but Hélène just rolled her eyes. “The owner of the yacht company called me and told me after they’d found him. I never told the owner where I was or who I was with. It’s a totally plausible story.” 

“Why couldn’t you have just gotten Anatole and Dolokhov to back you up?” Ishmael asked. 

“Because Dolokhov already has a criminal record, so his word automatically means less in a court of law. And nobody trusts Anatole at all. Ippolit is the pure one in the family. His support would mean a lot if it came to a trial - which it won’t, because I was very thorough.” 

Ippolit was stuck on her first comment. “Dolokhov has a criminal record?”

“Does that surprise you?” 

Of course it didn’t. He’d just never thought about it. “What’d he do?” 

“Arson,” Dolokhov said, baring his teeth in what could barely be called a grin. 

“You did not,” Hélène reprimanded, hitting him on the side of the head. “It was just first-degree murder.” 

“Just,” Ishmael echoed, his voice terribly small in the room. 

She laughed. “I’m kidding, of course. He shoplifted when he was like seventeen.” 

“That is a lie! I did too get indicted for first-degree murder! The Shah’s brother, remember? That was an international incident.” 

“But we got a good lawyer. You weren’t convicted,” Hélène pointed out. 

“Why do you desperately want us to know you were almost convicted of first-degree murder?” Ippolit asked, absolutely baffled.

“Because I need you to know I’m cool,” Dolokhov said. “Murder is sexy.” 

“Thank you,” Hélène said. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Hélène turned back to Ippolit. “You got that?” 

He nodded. “Yeah. You were with us when we got the call. You definitely didn’t drown him. Dolokhov was wanted internationally for murder once. I think that covers it.”   
“Nice,” Anatole said. “Now go away.”

Ippolit bristled. “Absolutely not. This is my room, not yours. We’re staying here. You guys go away.” 

“We?” Anatole echoed, his eyebrows waggling suggestively up and down. 

Ippolit ground his teeth. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I know this might be a difficult concept for you to grasp, but I can have a living person within ten feet of me and have no intention of having sex with them.” 

“Sounds boring,” Anatole snorted.

Ippolit declined to point out that his sister was within ten feet of him. He would probably make some extraordinarily awful joke implying something Ippolit knew not to be true. He couldn’t tell if Anatole didn’t care about the incest rumors or if he was purposely stoking them because he liked the attention. Either way, he’d heard the two of them discussing how ludicrous it was once, so he knew it wasn’t actually a thing. 

“I was serious. Get out.” 

“Let’s go,” Dolokhov said suddenly. Ippolit was shocked that he was being backed up by Dolokhov, of all people. “It’d be really sadistic if we continued to get drunk in Vassily’s room after Hélène killed him.” 

Never mind. Hélène laughed. “You’re right. Alright, you got lucky, Ippolit. Sweet dreams.” 

They gathered up their things as Ippolit and Ishamel went into Ippolit’s bedroom and closed the door so they didn’t have to hear whatever horrible topics of conversation the three of them favored. 

Ippolit sank onto his bed and put his hands over his face. “I am so, so, so sorry about them,” he groaned. He peeked out from behind his fingers. “Now do you see why I don’t spend a lot of time with them?” 

Ishmael stood at the foot of his bed, a strange look on his face. It took a moment for Ippolit to realize it was pity. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to deal with them your whole life. They’re a problematic bunch, aren’t they?” 

Ippolit lay back onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling. “You don’t know the half of it. Are they gone?” 

Ishmael cracked the door open and listened for a second, then nodded, visibly relaxing. Ippolit felt awful. It was his fault Ishmael had been exposed to....whatever you wanted to call his siblings. “I am so sorry,” he repeated. 

“Was your dad really that awful?” Ishmael asked, leaning against the closed door. 

Ippolit hesitated for a moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m not really that sad.” Earlier he had been afraid Ishmael would judge him, but now he felt that since he’d seen how horrible the rest of Ippolit’s family was, he would understand. 

“Goodness,” Ishmael muttered, now staring at the carpet. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was your childhood like?” 

Ippolit laughed. “I feel like a psychiatry patient. Me lying here like they do on those couches in the cartoons, you standing above me with your big brain, ready to psychoanalyze whatever I say.” 

Wordlessly, Ishmael walked around the bed and laid down on the other side of it, flat on his back and looking at the ceiling like Ippolit had been. “There,” he said. “Now I’m not your psychiatrist.” He turned and cracked a small smile. Ippolit hoped his breath didn’t catch too obviously. “I’m just your friend.” 

“Thanks,” Ippolit said, horribly aware that there was only a few inches between their hands. 

“Of course. So, childhood?”

“I promise I’m not avoiding the question,” Ippolit started, well aware that he was avoiding the question. “But why do you want to hear about it?”

Ishmael sighed. “If you really must know, I’m trying to decide what to do about all of this. I would feel a lot better about not turning your sister in if I knew he deserved it.” 

“Not to agree with her or anything, but he totally did.” 

“It must’ve been horrible to grow up with only them for company,” Ishmael prodded. “No offense.”

Ippolit laughed bitterly. “None taken. You’re right.” Dimly, he realized they had gotten to the Bond Over Your Trauma stage of friendship gay people always seemed to reach way earlier than straight people did. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “He wasn’t ever outwardly mean to me like he was to Anatole. But Anatole never seemed to care, and I...I just wanted him to love me, you know? It doesn’t sound unreasonable for a son to want their father to care about them.” 

“No,” Ishmael said softly. “It isn’t unreasonable.” 

“He was just never kind to me. He never treated me like family at all, except when he generalized his sons as fools. That was the worst thing he ever did, actually.” 

“What was?”

“Comparing me to Anatole.”

Ishmael laughed. _This is great_ , Ippolit thought. _I’m going to get a good grade in trauma sharing, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve._ “Go on,” Ishmael encouraged when Ippolit was silent. 

“I don’t know,” he mused. “Maybe that’s why I’m like this. A lack of attention? I don’t know,” he finished lamely. 

“What about your mother?” 

“She was the same as my father. A little nicer when she remembered I existed, which wasn’t that often. That’s probably sad, considering I was her only child for a while.”

“It is sad.” There was something horribly pitying in Ishmael’s tone that made Ippolit squirm. He had never said any of this out loud, and only now was he realizing how screwed up it had all been. “And your siblings?” 

“You met them. You know what they’re like.” 

“Were they always like that?” 

“Yes. They were always super close, and obviously I wasn’t. I don’t think that really helped with the feeling of being an outsider in my own family. Although I am glad I don’t have friends like they do.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ishmael said. “For what it’s worth, I think they were missing out.” 

Ippolit caught Ishmael’s eye and found himself unable to look away. He felt Ishmael press his hand. “Thanks,” he said in a whisper. 

“It’s not fair that they treated you like that,” Ishmael went on. “I’m a little miffed on your behalf.” 

Ippolit grinned. “Well I was a little miffed on _your behalf earlier_. That was no way to treat a guest.”

“Good to know we’re both disgruntled.” 

“We can be dis- what did you say?” 

“Disgruntled?” 

“Yeah, that. Funny-sounding word. We can be that together.” 

Silence fell for a second, then Ippolit abruptly remembered that bonding over shared trauma tended to be a two-way street. “Hey, what about you?”

“What do you mean, what about me?”

“I told you all about my past torments, Dr. Ishmael. It’s your turn to tell me.” 

“Oh.” He shifted, letting go of Ippolit’s hand and sitting up, drawing his knees up so he was sitting against the headboard. “I...oh.” 

Ippolit mirrored him, leaning his own head back against the wall. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you keep making these mysterious comments about sea tragedies and I’m just a little bit concerned.” 

“Ah.” 

“You can’t just keep making variations on the same noise and expect me to understand what you’re thinking.” 

Ishmael blinked, looking down at his knees. “It’s sort of a ghost story,” he warned. 

Fear started to trickle through Ippolit, but he dammed it up. Ishmael was more important than his petty fears. “That’s alright,” he said with effort. “Just maybe don’t get too into the supernatural bits.” 

Ishmael looked over in surprise. “I was saying that so you’d ask me not to tell you.” 

“I care about you more than I do the ghosts,” Ippolit said simply, then blushed. Why was he blushing? That was the kind thing to say. 

An incredulous smile slowly crawled across Ishmael’s face. “Really?” 

“Really. Although-” Ippolit faltered. “Maybe don’t tell the spooky parts in great detail if you can help it.” 

“It doesn’t involve any real ghosts,” he confessed. “I just tend to think of memories as a sort of ghost of the past.” 

Now _that_ was a downright terrifying thought. Ippolit decided not to process it. “Go ahead, then.” 

He was silent for a few moments, wringing his hands. “I went out on a whaling trip once,” he started. “It was - it was wonderful, and it was long, and we all became a family while we were out there.” 

“That sounds nice,” Ippolit offered. 

“It was.” Ishmael’s eyes were unfocused. “Until they all died.” 

Ippolit froze. “Oh,” was all he could manage. He was at once sad and shocked and second-guessing his decision to make Ishmael relive all this. “All of them?”

“All of them. It’s been…” he trailed off. “Six years? Maybe more. I still think of them almost every day.” 

Ippolit couldn’t think of anything to do but pull Ishmael into a hug, so that was what he did. Ishmael’s head rested in the crook of his neck and their knees leaned together. “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“No,” Ishmael said. So they didn’t. “Do you want to talk more about your family?”

“No,” Ippolit said. So they didn’t. 

“Let’s talk about something else.” 

“Alright.” Mentally, Ippolit cast around for something to say. “Did I ever tell you about the time I said some guy’s wife was pretty and everyone thought I was having an affair with her?”   
Ishmael laughed softly, which was good to hear. Actually, he felt it more than anything else since they were so close. “Well, you’ve got to hear about it, then,” Ippolit decided. “Her name was Lise, and she was pretty. I thought I was being friendly, but apparently that counts as flirting. My dad’s friend threw this party, and she was there…” he just went on and on, little anecdotes and weird things that had happened to him (there were plenty of those) until they were both falling asleep. Through the course of Ippolit’s rambling, they’d slid down until their heads were on a pillow again. It was comfortable, laying there pressed against each other. 

There wasn’t a real end to their conversation - conversation was a gracious word, it was mostly Ippolit talking and Ishmael interjecting a few comments - they just both talked less and less until they were laying there silently. This seemed like the sort of thing that should be awkward, but Ippolit was half asleep and in love, so it wasn’t. 

“Ippolit?” Ishmael murmured. His head was still on Ippolit’s shoulder. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m really glad you talked to me at the science center.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Ippolit said. And then, because he felt like he should, he kissed the top of Ishmael’s head. He couldn’t really tell, but he thought Ishmael smiled. “Goodnight.”


End file.
